“I’ll say!” she agreed. “Did you see that? Do I get a gold star or what?”
“How many times do I have tell you? We don’t do stars.”
“Maybe it’s time to reconsider that policy?” Claudia suggested. “Personally, I’m feeling very starworthy right now.”
The Super Soaker had lived up to its name—and then some. Worrall looked like he’d been dipped in a vat of purple sludge. Neutralizer dripped from his hair, face, and clothing. Claudia knew the feeling. Her own clothes were still sticky. She couldn’t wait to change into some clean duds if and when they saved the day.
“What—” Worrall sputtered, spitting goo from his lips. He was smart enough not to swallow any of it. Wiping the gunk from his eyes, he gazed down in bewilderment at the slimy, drippy mess he had become. He glowered at Claudia and her squirt gun. “Are you serious?” He sounded seriously pissed off. “Do you think this is some sort of silly slapstick comedy?”
Clearly, he had no idea what the neutralizer was for.
“I don’t who you are,” he fumed, “but that’s the last imbecilic prank you’re ever going to play.” He shook his left fist at Claudia and Artie. “Prepare to choke to death on your own phlegm and bile!”
Ick, Claudia thought. Despite her surprisingly expert marksmanship, she experienced a moment of anxiety. The neutralizer was mucho effective, most of the time, but it didn’t always work. Defanging artifacts was not an exact science. What if the gloves still had a little mojo left? She tried squirting Worrall again, just to be safe, but only a few last drops dribbled from the muzzle. That last mega-blast had emptied the gun. Remind me to bring a backup soaker next time, she thought. If there’s a next time.
Worrall’s gaunt face grimaced in concentration. He clenched his left fist. Claudia nervously felt her forehead to see if she was running a fever, but her brow seemed to be just normal body temperature, at least as far as she could tell. A sideways glance at Artie didn’t find him keeling over, either.
She crossed her fingers. “Looking good so far.”
“Damnit!” Worrall stared in anger and confusion at his gooey glove. Whatever he was trying to do wasn’t happening. The gloves sparked briefly before fizzling out entirely. A tiny wisp of gray mist issued from the left glove, then dissipated. The right glove couldn’t even muster a glow. He smacked the gloves together, trying to get them to work. “What’s wrong? Why isn’t it working?”
Claudia grinned at Artie. “Looks to me like the fever has broken.”
“My diagnosis as well, Nurse Donovan.”
“‘Nurse’?” She feigned indignation. “Sexist much?”
“Well, I’m not going to be the nurse,” Artie replied. “I can’t even stand the sight of blood.”
“Wimpazoid.”
Their banter was wasted on Worrall. His angry expression was overwritten by panic as he realized that the gloves were out of commission. Abandoning the cane as well, he bolted from the stalled carriage. A stand of elm trees at the west end of the meadow offered cover, and he made for it on foot. No doubt he hoped to escape the park altogether and lose himself in the teeming streets of Manhattan.
He didn’t get far.
Myka blocked his escape. A bit rumpled and battered-looking, she didn’t look disposed to go easy on him.
“Let’s try this again,” she said.
Unlike Worrall, her Tesla still had plenty of juice left. Artificial lightning leaped from the gun to Worrall, who could no longer heal himself or shrug off the powerful electrical jolt. Scorched goo sizzled and he toppled backward onto the lawn. In the distance, the bronze Union soldier looked on from atop his granite pedestal. The sun came out, forming a halo around the Civil War monument. A trick of the light made it seem like the statue was smiling.
Myka threw the solder a salute before hurrying to check on Worrall. She approached the supine figure cautiously, just in case he was playing possum, and nudged him sharply with the toe of her boot. He didn’t stir. It appeared that he was out cold for real. His eyes were shut. His body was limp. The smell of singed neutralizer rose from his motionless form.
“About time,” she muttered.
Taking no chances, she cuffed his wrists before peeling the gloves from his hands. They were covered with goo, but she didn’t care. Purple gloves protected her own hands from whatever power might still be lurking in Clara Barton’s corrupted hand wear. Worrall whimpered in his sleep, and tried to yank his hands away from her, but Myka didn’t let that slow her down. Every minute counted.
“Hang on, Pete. I’m coming.”
Claiming both gloves, she left Worrall sprawled on the grass and sprinted back to where Pete lay dying. Claudia and Artie were already attending to him while the carriage horse grazed on the lawn a few yards away. The animal’s flanks were drenched with sweat. Myka didn’t give the horse a second glance.
“How is he doing?” she asked anxiously. Please, don’t let it be too late!
Artie crouched beside Pete, checking his pulse. He shook his head dolefully. Claudia swallowed a sob as she clutched Pete’s hand. His face was gray. His whole body was shaking. A thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Myka had seen enough old movies to know that almost always meant somebody was a goner. An almost-physical pain walloped her. She stared at him in horror.
“We’re losing him,” Artie confirmed.
“No! Just . . . no.” She had hoped that simply neutralizing the gloves would be enough to cure Pete, but apparently it didn’t work that way. More active measures were called for. She fought back against despair. Pete needed her now. “I’m not going to let that happen.”
The gloves were still dripping with goo, but she wiped them off on the grass as best she could. She removed her own latex gloves and tossed them aside. Ignoring the left glove for the moment, she started to put on Nadia’s glove. The right glove, in more ways than one.
“Hold on,” Artie said. His bushy eyebrows shot upward in alarm. “What are you doing?”
“What do you think?” Myka replied. The glove felt too big at first, but it shrunk to fit her. She took that as a sign that she had wiped off enough neutralizer—and that maybe she was meant to do this. It was only her hope. “I’m going to try to heal him.”
Claudia gave her worried look. “You sure about that? I thought curing people with that glove made the healer sick. What if bringing Pete back from the brink . . . isn’t good for you?”
“She’s right,” Artie said bluntly. “It’s too dangerous. You might die instead.”
“I don’t care.” Myka flexed her fingers. The glove fit her snugly. “He’s my partner. I can’t just stand by and watch him die.”
Even though Pete was the one who was dying, their times together flashed before her eyes. She remembered hanging out with him at the Warehouse and Leena’s place, sharing jokes and meals on the road, and comforting each other through hard times, like when her dad was sick and after Pete’s girlfriend left him. Snowball fights, birthday parties, and movie nights competed with narrow escapes and unforgettable moments of mutual wonder in her mental photo album. She and Pete had traveled through time together and even shared the same body on occasion. His reckless attitude had driven her nuts back at the Secret Service, but now she couldn’t imagine a life without him. If he died, part of her would too. Forever.
Unless the glove could save him.
A photographic memory of Nadia laying hands on the afflicted in that stuffy tent in West Haven came back to Myka. She reached out for Pete.
His hand shot up to stop her.
“N-no, Myka! Don’t!” Pete croaked. Palsied fingers gripped her wrist. He somehow found the strength to try to hold her hand back. “I’m not . . .” A wrenching cough broke up his words. “. . . not going to let you do this. . . .”
“Please, Pete!” She gently wrested her hand from his grip. He was too weak to really stop her, but she didn’t want to heal him against his will—not unless she absolutely had to. Her voice cracked.
“You don’t understand. I can’t lose you like this. I have to save you.”
For a second she was back in Denver, cradling Sam in her arms as his life slipped away before her eyes. A madman’s bullet had claimed his life, just like this goddamn fever was killing Pete. Not again, she thought desperately. I can’t go through this again.
“Forget it!” He scooted back across the grass, trying to get away from her. “Not going to . . . let you trade your life . . . for mine.” He fought to get the words out. Every halting syllable seemed to tear itself painfully from his chest. “Couldn’t live with that. . . .”
Artie tried to pull her away. “Myka, you don’t want to do this. Believe me.”
He was hoarse with emotion. She knew he had to be thinking of the Phoenix, a mystical artifact that had once brought him back from the ashes—at the expense of another’s life. He never spoke of it, but she could only imagine what that knowledge must feel like. One more guilty burden to add to those he was already carrying. A lifetime of survivor’s guilt.
Would Pete be able to shoulder that sort of load? Was it fair to ask him to?
“But I have to do something!” She pulled away from Artie. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she wrestled with her conscience. What was the right thing to do? And did she even care about doing right if it meant losing Pete like she had lost Sam? The glove taunted her, tempted her. She understood now why Nadia had clung to it so fiercely. “What’s the point of chasing miracles for a living if I can’t use one when it matters most?”
“That’s the hell of it,” he said sadly. “Miracles break the rules. It’s why we have to lock them away.”
She knew he was right, in theory. All her life she had tried to go by the book, play by the rules. Just this once, couldn’t she make an exception?
Even if it meant sacrificing her life?
“Let me do it,” Nadia volunteered. She came up behind Myka, so quietly that the distraught agent had not even heard the younger woman approach. Her bare hand fell softly on Myka’s shoulder. “I chose this. It’s my responsibility.”
“Uh-uh.” Claudia let go of Pete’s hand and jumped to her feet. She hurried around to grab hold of Nadia and tug her away from Myka. Still weakened from her ordeal, the healer was in no shape to fight back. “Not so fast, medicine woman.” Claudia glanced anxiously at Artie. “There’s gotta be another way!”
But was there?
Pete was slipping away. His arm dropped limply to his side. His head lolled against the ground. His bloodshot eyes rolled up until only the pinkish whites could be seen. Tremors shook his body. His chest rose and fell shallowly. “Dad?” he murmured deliriously. “Is that you?”
Pete’s father, a fireman, had died when he was just a child.
“Please,” Nadia begged. She reached in vain for the glove even as Claudia held her back. “Let me heal him. I know I can do it.”
Just for second, Myka considered taking her up on her offer. But no, she couldn’t let anyone else risk themselves. Pete was her partner . . . and her friend. He had been infected while defending her. This one’s on me.
“C’mon, Pete,” she pleaded with him. “Stay with me.”
He didn’t seem to hear her. This was Denver all over again. . . .
“Oh, crap,” Claudia said behind her. “This can’t be happening.”
“It’s not.” Myka made up her mind. Pete had risked his life for her more times than she could count. Now it was her turn. She raised her gloved hand and looked at Nadia. “So how does this work, anyway? Do I just think about healing him? Is there a trick to it?”
Artie looked aghast. “Myka, wait!”
She shot him a warning look. “Don’t try and stop me, Artie.”
“But I have an idea,” he said urgently. “Let me try something else!”
Myka hesitated. Pete only had moments left. What if she missed her chance?
If he dies because I made the wrong call, I’m through. I’ll never trust myself again.
“Trust me, Myka.” Artie looked her squarely in the eyes. “I just want to save you both.”
She searched his weathered face for certainty. Artie knew more about artifacts, she reminded herself, than anybody else except maybe Mrs. Frederic. If she couldn’t trust him, what was she even doing here?
“All right,” she said. “What do you want to do?”
“Let’s put both gloves on him. Quickly!”
He snatched Worrall’s glove from the ground and starting pulling it onto Pete’s limp left hand. Following his lead, Myka yanked off the right glove and tried to put it on Pete’s hand instead. His trembling fingers didn’t exactly cooperate, but the glove itself seemed to mold itself to Pete’s hand. He gasped weakly. His breathing slowed.
“Hurry, guys!” Claudia urged them from the sidelines. “I think the clock is running out.”
Myka tried to ignore Pete’s final groans. Wearing both gloves had made Worrall almost invincible. She could only hope that Pete would benefit from them as well. Frantic fingers buttoned the glove around his wrist, then reluctantly let go of his hand. “Done!” she reported to Artie. “You?”
“Almost.” He checked to make sure the left glove was properly fitted. “There!” He scrambled backward, as though anticipating some variety of pyrotechnic reaction. He tugged Myka away as well. “With any luck, the healing and the horror will cancel each other out. . . .”
Something happened right away, that was for sure. Violent convulsions rocked Pete’s body, which practically lifted off the ground. A thick gray mist oozed from his pores even as a brilliant blue radiance spread across his body. The light combated the fog, but it was impossible to tell which was winning. Was the glow dispelling the haze, or was the fog extinguishing the light? And could Pete’s debilitated body even survive the eldritch forces battling within him? Myka prayed that Artie had calculated correctly, and that she hadn’t missed her last chance to save Pete.
What if they had only made his final moments all the more excruciating?
“What’s happening?” she asked, wringing her hands. The suspense was almost more than she could take. She had to know what was happening. “Is it working?”
“Maybe,” Artie said. “I don’t know.”
The grayness swirled furiously around Pete, briefly hiding him from view. Scintillating blue flashes shone through the haze like lightning strobing deep within a storm cloud. Myka could feel the raw energy against her face. Tiny hairs rose up at the back of her neck. Her anxious gaze strove to penetrate the tumult, but the blinding flashes forced her to look way. Huddled beside her, Artie shielded his eyes with his arms.
“It’ll be over soon,” he predicted. “One way or another.”
There was nothing more they could do, Myka realized. Pete was in Clara Barton’s hands now, so to speak.
“Um, guys?” Claudia called out. “Maybe you should back up a bit more?”
Probably not a bad idea, but just a second too late. The blue light merged with the gray fog like matter colliding with antimatter. A burst of pristine white energy knocked Myka and Artie backward, sending them tumbling across the lawn. The shock wave radiated outward, uprooting Claudia and Nadia as well. The carriage horse whinnied in fright. Rising up on its hind legs, it pawed the air with its front hooves. Pete himself was lost at the center of the eruption.
And then, in a heartbeat, it was over.
The intense white glare blinked out of existence. The shock wave exhausted itself. Myka found herself sprawled upon the grass at least three yards from where she had been crouching before. Fallen leaves cushioned her body. Artie moaned a few feet away. He rescued his glasses from the leaf litter. Miraculously, they appeared to be unbroken.